


Let's Go Far Away

by shadowfax311



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Angst and Guilt ridden Derek, Erica and Isaac are Twins, M/M, Pirate!Derek, Pirate!Pack, Pirates, derek takes stiles hostage, noble!Stiles, then gets dark and broody about it, then kinda likes him, you know the drill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 15:56:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3856447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowfax311/pseuds/shadowfax311
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Hale, first mate on the French pirate ship Sfidare, is content with his life and resigned to his circumstances. However when the ships newest plan involves an odd hostage named Stiles and he gets sent to collect him, he may find his world about to change drastically. Mix in a few good friends, a helpful ship doctor, a dark and hidden past, and the fact that Stiles is not the count-to-be he expected? Well, let's just say things aren't going to be the same again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a line from the wonderful Cosmo Jarvis song "Gay Pirates".
> 
> So though I have written plenty of fanfics over the years, I've never actually gotten to the point of uploading one. Most of the time I lose interest in the story and don't put it up since I know I'll never finish it, other times I reread it a week later and discover it's crap. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this piece, updates will likely be approximately once a week, maybe every other as AP finals approach, but then more frequently come late May. 
> 
> Special thanks to Mandy, Toritolia, and Ivy for being awesome and helping sketch out the plot as well as proof-read, I know grammar isn't my strong suit, that's why I have you!
> 
> Talk to me over at Timeladyoftheimpala.tumblr.com, I'd love to hear from you all <3

**June 20th, 1748- Dungeon of the de la Tour d’Auvergne family**

_The air is still and humid, though the rough stones that make up the floor remain chilled; but they’re nothing compared to the icy burning of the iron bars preventing any from leaving this dreadful place. Sitting in the furthest corner from the door, his wrist shackled to the the wall, clothes little but rags and dirt, hair too long and caked to his cheek with his own dried blood, sits a man with his head down and knee bent to his chest. His hand moves in the same repeated motion against his leg, again, and again, as if he is writing the same words over and over._

_S_ _itting in shadows and filth, this thief, smuggler, pirate, sits silently waiting for whatever his fate may be. Hidden from sight beneath the long hanging curtains of hair that originally was most likely a shade of dark brown, the color of dark chocolate, sits a face statuesque in its stillness and form, holding a pair of eyes somewhere between green, grey, and blue but shadowed and empty now. His hand again moves through the same motion, fingertip tracing lines and curves on the edge of his thigh, the torn edge of his nail catching on the rough cotton fibers of what was once a decent pair of pants. Again and again the man’s hand moves, Stiles…Stiles…Stiles…_


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, i'm enjoying this so I hope you all will too

**August 17th, 1746- Enez Terc’h, Off the Coast of France**

 

Derek scowled down at his hands, clasped together with his elbows resting on his knees, as he listens to the nonsense his crew mates believe passes for a plan, something about kidnapping a spoiled, doughy, noble son and extorting his family for money. “It won’t work,” his gruff voice says quietly. He smirks to himself when his quiet simple sentence cuts off all the arguing and the others finally sit in silence. Eventually a single voice pops up, “And why might that be, Vârcolac ?” “Because any such high profile family will have protections, defenses, plans set in place to guard against exactly what you’re all planning, Pietre. Plus, if we succeeded, then we’d have to babysit the damn brat.” 

Pietre, the captain of the ship Sfidare , leaned back against the salt burnished warmth of the driftwood behind him and studied his inscrutable first mate and nephew, scarred fingers tapping a random rhythm on his bent knee. “So how would you do it, then,” he asks, raising a hand to cut off the burst of dissent that came from the mastermind of the previous plan, Viperâ , a younger crew member with aspirations much too high for his intellect. 

“Send me and two, maybe three, others for the brat, when he’s traveling. Ambush on the road, fewer people allowing it to be fast and stealthy. Much fewer chances for things to go wrong than attacking the main keep head on,” the last line directed with a condescending smirk to the still simmering man holding his tongue across the fire as his captain waves off his arguments. After a moment, Pietre nodded. “You have three months. Bring the boy back unharmed and leave someone alive to bring his ring and a note back to the family.” 

Viperâ frowned and added, “It shouldn’t be difficult, he’s just some second son noble, reports say minimal fighting experience. He’ll probably just cry and surrender. Bit below your level, ain’t he, Vârcolac. Just don’t get distracted, I heard he’s pretty, wouldn’t want you to lose it for a quick lay, eh?” his cruel laugh joined by the others. “Knock it off, boy,” Pietre snapped. Turning back to Derek, “Take the kids, you leave for Marseilles in the morning.”

 

 

**September 29th, 1746- The Road from Paris to the de la Tour d’Auvergne Estate**

 

Derek sat silently in the branches of an overhanging tree, listening to the rattling of the approaching carriage, eyes flicking to the locations of his three chosen companions. As the dark bay horses, their white plumes and crests marking the importance of their passenger, rounded the small copse of trees at the far end of the road and trotted their way towards the crew, Derek slowly raised his weight to the balls of his feet, his worn leather boots soft and silent on the rough bark and took a deep breath. Closer and closer the carriage came, the quiet chatter of the guards becoming more distinct as they unknowingly approached their ends. 

Silently timing his attack, Derek ignored the thudding of his own blood in his ears and allowed himself to fall from the tree, landing with a soft thump on the roof of the wooden carriage. His head flew up, hair flipping out of his eyes and revealing the violent baring of his teeth that barely passes for a grin. The bladed, clawed, gloves that gave him his Romani name slashed out, the faded light of the moon and the carriages torches glinting off the polished steel as the razor sharp edges pierced deep and ripped through the soft flesh of the right hand guards throat. A gasp and faint gurgle was heard as the recently deceased man slumped to the side, dragging on his horses reins and careening them both into the side of the carriage. The sharp scream of the horse disappeared in the ensuing chaos, the carriage tilting dangerously to the side with the added weight and aided along in its fall as Derek jumped off. 

The remaining five guards immediately drawing their swords and pistols and yelling at each other, heads twisting from side to side it their attempts to find their attacker. Piercing, gleeful calls erupted as Isaac, Ericá, and Vernón leaped from their shadowy spots and set upon the fivemen, the first two armed with numerous hidden knives and lethal in their quick movements and lighting fast attacks while Vernón ran straight on, decimating his opponents through sheer mass and strength. Derek stood silently by the overturned carriage, watching as within minutes, five more bodies in their fine livery joined the one already dead. 

“Stay there,” Derek ordered the other three, as he turned toward the carriage; it’s front wheel still spinning pathetically in the air as Derek skillfully climbed the edge, crimson droplets and slight scoring left behind in the rich wood as his weaponized hands dug in. Crouching on top, next to the door, he wondered for a second about the odd silence from inside, shrugging it off as being due to the noble brats panic, or perhaps he got lucky and the fall knocked the boy out for him already. 

 

He threw open the door, the painted wood banging unpleasantly on the outer side, and barely dodged the bullet aimed at his face. Thrown to the side, temporarily blind and deaf due to the loud bang and sudden flash when his eyes had adjusted to the dark gloom of the forest at night, coughing from the smoke that clouded his face, Derek rolled off the carriage and stumbled slightly on the uneven ground. A harsh shout signaled the noble boy’s fury as he jumped from the over turned carriage and drew his sword, seeing the carnage scattered on the road. 

Isaac and Ericá rushed forward, their knives drawn, both scowling at the unexpected attack on their leader. Derek shook his head and blinked, trying to clear is blinded eyes, and lurched backwards, dodging as the boy landed before him and slashed out with his blade in his left hand, useless pistol held loosely as a club in his right. Sparks scattered the air at Derek blocked the next attack with the steel plates that extend from the back of the gloves, up and around his forearms. Eyes finally, clearing, Derek raised his left hand, silently telling the others to back off. Lowering his body slightly to settle into a fighters crouch and raising his clawed fingers, Derek slowly circles the boy, taking stock of his unexpected opponent and planning how to best incapacitate without outright harming him. 

Half lit in the smoldering light, the other man was not the overweight, pampered, teenager that Derek had been led to expect, but rather a finely built man, with long limbs and strength hidden in his slimness. Instead of fine velvets and ornate brocade, he wore light, soft, calf skin breeches and a dark burgundy silk shirt, both simple and functional, expensive in their apparent quality rather than fashion. He mirrored Derek’s movements, body perfectly balanced and obviously well trained, footwork textbook perfects and arms settled in the subtle coiling tension of a snake, eyes never leaving the center of Derek’s chest so as to best anticipate his movements. 

“Who are you. And why are you here,” the words spat in Derek’s direction as they continued to wait for each other’s first move. “It’s nothing personal, your highness” Derek responded sarcastically, “it’s the job. I follow orders and my orders were to take you, though now that I see you I don’t mind the orders so much”. The man stumbled slightly at the badly veiled come on and Derek lunged, his claws flitting out and drawing blood from the mans sword shoulder. The younger man retreated with a small gasp of pain, backing up as he drops the pistol to put pressure on the wound before switching hands and raising the sword again in his right hand. 

His movements, however, had positioned him directly in front of Ericá, who lunged forward, her small knife darting in to slash his lower back and hip, causing him to yell in surprise and pain before spinning around and opening a gash across her thigh with his blade. Derek took the opportunity to leap up behind him, grab the discarded pistol, and deliver a swift blow to his temple, catching him as he crumples in his arms. 

 

“Tamás , get Shandor , grab their horses, we’ve been here too long as it is. Munte , prepare and leave the message, I’ve got the boy. Let’s go,” Derek ordered quickly as he pulled the signet ring from the young man’s finger, tossed it to Vernón, and gathered the boy in his arms. Setting him at the base of a tree on the side of the road, Derek retrieved the packs they had hidden in an old stump when they had set up. Unhitching the four bay horses from where they were still panicking and fastened the over turned carriage, he quickly stripped the livery from them and switched the harnesses out for the saddles the guards had been using. Speaking slowly and calmly to each of the horses as he prepared them, Derek stroked their soft noses and removed the bladed gloves, petting them slowly until all four were calm and settled. 

“We’re ready” Isaac called, his twin sister settled in front of him on the saddle, strips of cloth wrapped tight around her leg and already bleeding through in the center. Vernón nodded to the surviving guard, knocked out and sitting at the edge of the road, the lump of the message and ring barely visible under his vest, and mounted the second horse, tying the reins of the third who was carrying their packs as well as everything of value they had stolen from the carriage, to the edge of his saddle. Derek lifted their prisoner onto the saddle of the last horse before singing himself up behind him, holding the limp form steady between his arms. “Then let’s go. Marseilles is a long ways away, we should get started.”

 

They rode through the night, cutting through the woods and avoiding roads, only setting up camp when the sun rose to put distance between them and the carriage. The boy remained unconscious, fortunately, and Ericá was able to drift off supported by her brother. Setting up at the base of an old creek bed, Derek lowered the boy to the ground, tying him to a tree in case he woke up before going to check on the others. 

“Derek, who is he anyway?” Isaac asked as he sat down beside to older man. “A son of the de la Tour d’Auvergne family, that’s all I know. Ask him when he wakes if you want.” Isaac simply shrugged in response, content to sit in silence and watch over Ericá as she sleeps in her bedroll nearby. “He was good. Not what I expected,” Derek sighed, apparently the conversation wasn’t over. He grunted in agreement. “I’m curious how he learned that, those weren’t the moves of a court boy, the technique may have been trained but the moves, those were street fighter moves.” Another grunt. “Fine, fine, I’ll stop digging. I’m just saying, this is gonna be interesting and you know it. Not to bad on the eyes either, is he?” “Knock it off Isaac.” Derek ground out, shooting a glare at the younger blonde. Isaac simply laughed and laid down, calling a quick “G’night” before falling silent. 

Derek scowled as he sat and thought about Isaac’s words. He was right, things didn’t match up. This was gonna get complicated.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering, through the extensive black hole of research I've done, it is quite common for pirate crews to have specific names given to them when they join in addition to their birth names. The Romani names are all actual gypsy names and are translated below with who they correspond to. 
> 
> Vârcolac - Derek - Literally Man-wolf or werewolf. Maybe not super inventive but I like it.  
> Sfidare - The Ship - Defiance. I was binge watching Scandal at the time...  
> Viperâ - You'll See - Viper or Snake. I think you can figure it out  
> Tamás - Isaac - Twin. It was sounded better than all the alternatives.  
> Shandor - Erica - Proud. idk I just like it for her.  
> Munte - Boyd - Mountain. Look at him, it makes sense.
> 
> The random french and romani will always be translated here in the end notes. And seeing as it's set in France, Stiles can't very well be from the Stilinski family can he? Not to worry, all shall be made clear in time :)


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles wakes up, meets his captors, and finds himself liking some of them, much to his annoyance.
> 
> Also - backstory and time jump to how Derek and the pups all met :) I think you'll all enjoy it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to all, as usual.  
> Also, now I have a comment and multiple kudos, 5 people even bookmarked it! You can guess how excited that makes me <3
> 
> Well, enjoy, I got this to you all sooner than I expected. Also, the next chapter will probably have an 8tracks playlist to go with the fic linked in the notes, so keep your eyes peeled.

**September 30th, 1746- The Forest, on the Way to Marseilles**

Stiles winced as he started to come to, his head throbbing to match the tight pain in his back and hip where they were pressed tightly to rough tree bark. With a groan he slowly blinked and tried to raise his head, confused when he saw trees and leaves instead of plush fabric and the inside of his carriage. He froze when the events of the previous night came back to him, from suddenly being tossed around inside his carriage, the sounds of fighting, and finally to his fight with that clawed man.

  
“Finally awake, huh? Food?” a voice came from his right. Turning, he saw a tall blonde woman, with tall cheekbones and curly hair, casually leaning against another tree, wearing a baggy tan mens shirt, the low neck of which revealed more of her chest than was appropriate, pants with her hands resting in her pockets, a bandage wrapped round her thigh, and a smug smirk gracing her red painted lips.

  
“Wh-what…?” Stiles managed to stutter out past his dry mouth and pounding head. “Dammit, are you slow? ‘Cause that’s gonna make this trip a hell of a lot more boring. Do. You. Want. Food. Yes? No? C’mon kid, gimme something. I don’t have to feed you ya know, you did give me a right nasty cut.” Stiles glared, “I am in no way slow, I’m simply disoriented. I would never accept food from the likes of you and you wouldn’t have that cut if you had any sense of honor at all and hadn’t cheated by interfering in a fight.” He blinked, surprised when instead of getting upset the woman laughed, a full, hearty cackle with her head thrown back, entirely uncaring of propriety. “Ooh I like you. Vârcolac’s probably gonna despise ya though, just as a head’s up, and he’s the one you need to watch out for if you get what I mean,” she winked before pushing herself off the tree and limping away, “besides, more food for me”. And with that, he was alone.

  
Confused by the strange encounter, not at all what he expected from someone he had injured and then been captured by; not to mention it appeared his back and hip had been wrapped tightly and treated with, based on the odd smell coming from it, some sort of herbal concoction. Stiles tested the strength of his bonds, twisting his wrists and trying to locate loose spots in the the ropes, wincing as the movement jarred his wound.

  
“Knock that off, before you hurt yourself more,” a gruff voice called to him. Head snapping up, Stiles narrowed his eyes at the approaching figure, recognizing him as the man he had fought. He was taller than average, well built and muscled, dressed in old worn leather breeches and a loose linen shirt. His hair was dark, with fine stubble covering his cheeks and chin in the lower class fashion of neither shaving nor growing a proper beard. His eyes were hooded beneath strong brows and his mouth was tight and unhappy. Stiles traced his eyes along the fair features and felt a prickle of heat creep up the back of his neck, aiming for his cheeks. The mouth softened and twisted into a smirk, “Like what you see?” Stiles startled, realizing he had been staring, and flushed, “You wish,” he spat, “I insist you release me at once and return me to my family. Do so and I will have you killed swiftly for the death of my men instead of the slow ending my family will desire.”

  
The mouth twisted again into the tight scowl, “I told you before, I’m doing my job, nothing more. Now, Shandor said you refused to eat something and that’s not gonna work for me. If you get weak, you’ll slow us down. So eat, or I’ll have Tamás force you too, and he would be very willing to do so seeing as you cut up his twin sister. Do I make myself clear?”  
Stiles nodded slowly, aware of his position at the moment. The man loped towards him and crouched, nimble fingers swiftly undoing the tight knots and retying his hands in front of him, the rest of the rope serving as a leash to tug him forward around the tree and to the fire pit that had been behind him, out of him sight. He was pushed, surprisingly gently, down to a log and sat stiffly with a slight wince, highly conscious of the blonde boy glaring at him from across the fire. He was identical to his sister other than the hair length and flat chest and was sitting with a massive moorish man eating silently to his left. The man he’d fought completed the circle to his right and tore off a section of the coney roasting on the fire, laying it on a metal sheet that served at a plate and dropping it on Stiles ’ lap.

  
“I assume you are this Vârcolac I was warned about?” He asked coldly, stumbling over the foreign and complicated name while awkwardly attempting to peel off a section of meat with his palms tied together. Surprisingly the man turned and snapped at the woman, “Shandor! I thought I made myself clear about starting conversations.”

  
“He’s interesting! Plus, we’re gonna be with him for a while, might as well not make it worse by hating each other. I mean, it’s nothing personal against him, it’s just the money. I don’t see why we can’t get along while we’re all stuck together for the foreseeable future, right?” She snapped back. Stiles laughed under his breath. “Something funny?” she said, head snapping to face him. He jumped, startled at the suddenness, “Nothing, sorry. You just remind me of a friend of mine.” She softened slightly and nodded. “So what’s your name anyway?”

  
He froze. “Are you telling me you kidnapped me and have no idea who I am?”

  
“Well we know you’re part of the de la Tour d'Auvergne family, hence the ransom. But that’s a bit of a mouthful to call you all the time, right?” She responded. “My name’s a mouthful? Speak for yourself, none of your names are even remotely French!” He snapped his mouth shut, startled by the familiarity in which he had responded.

  
“That’s ‘cause they’re not. French, that is. We are, but our ships not. Crew’s all Gypsy, so they renamed us when we joined. This is Tamás, means twin you can guess how he got that name,” she said, nodding her head to the blonde still glaring at him. She turns to the silent giant, “that’s Munte, means mountain, again, obvious reasons. I’m Shandor, means proud, reason’s none of your business. And finally, that attractive, scowling, leader of ours is Vârcolac, means werewolf or wolf man, ‘cause of his fighting claws. Now we shared who we are, your turn.”

All eyes turned to Stiles, watching, intent and curious. He cleared his throat and put down the empty plate on the ground. “I am Stiles Firenz de la Tour d’Auvergne, second son of the Count du Auvergne. I’d say I was pleased to meet you all, but considering the circumstances are not quite what I would wish, that would be a lie, as you can understand.” He answers with a wry smile dancing across his lips. Shandor smiles and the last of the hanging tension seems to dissipate, even Tamás’s glare lessons a fraction in intensity, though Vârcolac continued to brood silently as he eats. “Though if you were renamed when you joined your ship, what were you before?” He asks. Immediately the tension returns. “Doesn’t matter.” Tamás says sharply. Stiles nodes quickly, accepting the strange reaction.

  
“Time to go. Move out in five” Vârcolac says, after the dropped mood sits awkwardly around the fire for a bit. “You’re with me,” he says, standing and looking down at Stiles. Stiles nodded again and stood, stumbling with a groan when the throbbing in his temple that he has successfully ignore through the meal returned with a vengeance and combined with a sudden stabbing pain across his side. Suddenly, cool palms cupped his face, “Easy there, you’re gonna be woozy for a while, you lost a bit of blood,” Stiles pressed his face firmer into the rough palms, enjoying the soothing feel of the contact with a small sigh.

  
Derek froze, looking down at the position he found himself in. ‘ _Crap,_ ’ he thought to himself, ‘ _just what I need, the kid getting attached to me_.’ But even so, he allowed Stiles to stay pressed against him until the dizziness had passed and he pulled away. Derek studied him as he slowly backed up, taking note of the large amber colored eyes, medium brown hair that probably would never lie flat even with help from Parisian professionals, and the random constellations of moles scattered across his cheeks and brow. Clearing his throat, Derek quickly removed his hands and turned away, “You’re riding with me,” he said, turning away towards the horses. Stiles nearly nodded and followed.

  
As they rode, in the same arrangement as before, Stiles couldn’t help but wonder how this strange array of people came to be so close. Of course, after the chilly reception when he had asked about their names, Stiles doubted he would get a straight answer at all, most likely he would just make things worse. But, well, any of his friends and family could attest to the fact that he wasn’t very good at knowing when to keep his mouth shut, so of course he couldn’t quite help himself from blurting out, “So how do you all know each other anyway? I mean, you seem pretty close, closer than I thought simple crew mates normally are, so what’s the story?” Awkward silence met his question, until at last Munte, who he least expected, offered an answer.

 

**April 21st, 1735- Main Marketplace of Paris**

“Ericá! Ericá, wait up! C’mon, please?” A young voice yelled as the slight blonde boy chased a giggling female version of himself through the crowded streets of Paris. “Ericá, you’re gonna get us in trouble, wait for me!” She spun and laughed, dancing on her toes, obviously impatient, “Isaac, hurry up”. She spun and dashed off, only to run headlong into another, slightly older and much larger boy. With a huff, she landed on her butt, hands thrown back to try and break her fall. Panting and out of breath, Isaac finally caught up with his flighty sister, eyes sparkling when he realized what happened. “Watch where you’re going, huh, Ericá?” He said with a smirk, leaning his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. “Nice one, Boyd.”

Vernón Boyd was 13 years old, two years older than the twins, though he looked about 17. He had dark brown skin, shaved his head religiously, and rarely used facial expressions. The twins had met him over a year before while picking pockets over on the shipping docks. Isaac had seen him palm a small loaf of bread near them and had pointed him out to his sister. Though initially reticent towards the two younger kids, he finally grew to accept their presence and, though he would never admit it, appreciate the company.

He reaches down, offering a hand to the scowling girl and pulling her upright once more. “Let’s go before the highborns are all picked clean” he said, his deep voice sobering the mood slightly but prompting matching focused and serious faces from the siblings, only small hints of the underlying excitement chiming through the cracks. The three young teenagers quickly turned to slip through the crowd towards the more expensive shops and café’s that lined the market square, which catered to the level of people who had the money to lose without being actually disadvantaged by the loss. As the poorest of the poor, the three had made a pact early on to never take from those who need what they have.

As they neared the corner shop filled with young girls and boys, mothers and their bored looking attendants, husbands and escorts standing outside talking, the three split up, careful to keep each other just at the edge of their sights. Straightening her spine, pulling on the fine lace gloves she had nicked a few weeks before, and carefully sculpting a calm, confident, and airy mask, Ericá approached the store with a lofty countenance of self importance. She was wearing a soft muslin and cotton dress, hair pinned in curls behind her ears in the latest fashion, and scuffed shoes carefully hidden beneath her hem. Taking a deep breath she passed the variety of men loitering by the entrance, lowering her eyes demurely as she passed while taking note of which ones were most flamboyantly dressed, knowing they would be the ones targeted by the boys.

Ericá smiled as she entered the store, grateful for the cooler air, muffled voices, and lightly perfumed air. Starting at the racks nearest, she slowly ran her fingertips over the displayed racks of fabric and linens, cherishing the soft feel of the velvet and silks through the gaps in her lace gloves. Making a show of studying each individual bolt with an absorbed intensity, Ericá counted in her head to time her theft precisely.

Slowly moving sideways, Ericá turned her head to look as the shop door bell chimed and two more ladies entered. Simultaneously, she purposefully stumbled over the small step leading to the rest of the shop, catching herself on the arm of her target; a lady most likely barely older than Ericá herself, with finely coiled black hair and a sweet, round face, who was deep in a hushed and energetic conversation with another girl, dressed in the peak of fashion with strawberry blond hair and a perfectly placed beauty mark on her upper lip but with eyes oddly sharp for someone so vain.

Her left hand still holding the girls arm as she apologized profusely, Ericá nimbly slipped her right hand into the shoulder clutch purse, palming the heavy coin bag quickly while she replaced it with a handful of pebbled wrapped in cheesecloth to accommodate for the weight change. The deep purple satin purse went deep into the hidden pocket cleverly sewn into the side seam of her dress and Ericá finally released the girls arm, backing up with another apology only to find her arm suddenly clenched tightly in the shopkeep’s hand, his bespectacled eyes furious and dark, age lined skin deeply creased in anger and mouth nearly shaking as he glared down at her small face and grabbed the coin purse from her hand, passing it back to the black haired girl.

“So you think you can steal from a lady, in my shop, hm? Were you taught nothing? Do you know what the Lord does with nasty children like you? He sends them down to Hell to burn. Now, let’s go Missy, find your escort and explain why you are never to be allowed near this shop again!” The man snarled, dragging Ericá to the door, his nails digging into her arm and hold painful. Ericá gasped in pain, whimpering as she continued to pull, though grateful that the man believed her to be a naughty noble’s daughter rather than a clever street urchin.

But that wasn’t going to last long when no escort came forward to claim her. Blinking her teary eyes as she was pulled through the door and back into the bright sun, Ericá barely heard the mariner’s demand for someone to come forward and take her away,as her eyes were fixed on the fearful and horrified faces of Boyd and her brother. Ericá hung her head, to onlookers she was embarrassed for what she did but actually she was ashamed for being caught. Not checking your surroundings properly was a stupid, rookie, mistake and now she was going to pay dearly for it.

Silence and grunting words met the shopkeep’s call, no one steeping forward. As the silence continued, the man’s eyebrows got increasingly furrowed and irritated. Ericá knew that she was stuck, with Boyd and Isaac too young and messy looking to be able to claim her, she would be left to the hands of the law. Best case scenario, some kindly convent would take her in and attempt to save her soul, like that was gonna happen. Heart racing and completely at a loss for what to do, Ericá slowly resigned herself to her fate.

“Fine then, seeing as you don’t belong to anyone, most likely some piece of street trash, I’ll leave you to the Argent’s, seeing as it was their eldest daughter, betrothed of the Dauphin, that you attempted to steal from. I doubt you’ll see any mercy from the King’s Guard Dogs,” Ericá’s head snapped up, eyes wide and for the first time truly terrified. The Argent Family was one of the oldest, and purest, of the blue blood noble families and had held the position of defenders of the land, colloquially referred to as the Guard Dogs, for generations. Everyone knew that the only way to stay in power for so long, to become so rich and important that the eldest daughter was to be wed to the King’s Heir, was by being clever, ruthless, and merciless.

“No! Please, please, don’t give me to them, I promise, I…I’ll go away, I won’t come near here again, uh…I’ll go turn myself in to the gendarmes, or…um…I’ll join the convent and repent for my ways, just please don’t give me to the Argent’s!” Ericá begged, frantically pulling on her arm, wildly looking around for a sympathetic face somewhere, anywhere, within the crowd of onlookers. “Remove your hand! I escorted her here and if you dare harm her more than you already have her father, Police Commissioner Jean Paul Verrefonte will have your shop, home, and head,” a strong voice rang out through the crowd as a modestly dressed, darkly handsome young man pushed through the people to approach the doorstep.

“Her mother refused her money for ribbons, said she already had enough, so she probably just wanted to buy a few. Her governess will be informed and she will be properly punished, by her own family. I was not here because I was sent to run an errand for Monsieur Verrefonte, I apologize for not being here to stop her myself,” he continued, smoothly adding a touch of humor to relax the situation while remaining firm. The shop owner stilled, a sour and contemplative look on his face, eyes, narrowed as if to decipher the truth from the man’s appearance. With a sharp nod, the man finally released Ericá’s arm, pushing her in the other man’s direction with a final warning of “Make sure she does not return until someone has taught her how a decent person aught to behave,” ringing out before the door shut with a thud behind him.

“Come, Mademoiselles, your mother will be very disappointed when I tell her what you have done, acting like a dirty street rat with sticky fingers,” the man scolded, hand gently guiding her away from the throng of curious onlookers who had gathered to see what was happening. Quietly, his mouth inches from her ear, he murmured “keep quiet, look small, say nothing, walk quickly,” his tone drastically different from the one he had used with the crowd, softer, older, the voice of a man highly uncomfortable with being in the public eye.

When they were far enough away to be hidden from the shop, the man quickly pulled Ericá into a nearby alley, releasing her and turning to face her with a scowl. “Are you and idiot? I saw you and those boys in the market, you’re quick, talented, and much too clever to make that kind of mistake. Did you get cocky? You saw a young lady with a heavy purse and got greedy? You made a mistake, acted like an idiot. You’re lucky I felt generous enough to stick my neck out for you, and you’re very lucky that the Argent girl didn’t insist you pay for your crime, if she had you would already be neck deep in the Argent keep and would spend the rest of your life as the kitchen maid without pinky fingers, do I make myself clear?” He stopped, breath slightly heavy and obviously still upset.

“Not that I don’t appreciate your help and all, but who are you and why did you help me?” Ericá asked, his comment about his own generosity needling her curiosity. “My name is Derek. And I saved you because I have no doubt that you could have handled the law or escaped from the gendarmes, but the Argents? No one, especially a kid who screwed up, deserves that.” Ericá looked at his appraisingly, he was young, no more than 20, likely younger, with strong slightly spanish features, tan skin, dark hair, and eyes somewhere between green, blue, and hazel but simultaneously none. “Sounds like your talking from experience,” his gaze snaps to her face, surprise flickering past before all reactions are wiped off like a blank slate.

Suddenly cold, he opens his mouth to respond before being cut off by a sharp cry. “Ericá!” Isaac and Vernón race from the busy square into the side alley, a mixture of extreme relief and apprehension clouding their faces as they looked at Ericá and then to Derek in turn. “You alright?” Isaac asked, turning to face his sister. She nodded, “Please tell me you guys at least got enough to get us by for a while? Street taxes were raised again and we already have a strike against us when it comes to paying the King of Thieves, we cannot miss it again.” Her face fell as Isaac look down at his feet, shuffling them together, his posture all the answer she needed. Ericá spun to look at Boyd, normally the sensible, logical one but he looked right back in her eyes unapologetically, “You were taken away by a strange man, did you really think we would stay just for money?” Ericá sighed, it wasn't like they had known she was okay. She nodded, “it’s alright, we’ll find a way.”

“No” A voice, silent till now, cut through and interrupted.

“Excuse me?” Ericá asked, annoyed and perplexed at the sudden intervention.

“You are not going to go straight back to the street. You should all be going to school, being young, living, not stealing for every quarter franc and scrap.”  
“Well, as nice as that would be, it isn’t really a luxury we can afford. It’s not like we do this by choice. We have each other, that’s it.”

“Then come with me.”

Stunned silence met this statement, even Derek looked a tad surprised with himself. “What?!?” Isaac yelled. “What do you mean, come with you. Just because you saved my sister does not mean we will be your slaves or something. I mean, we’re grateful and all but that is way too far.” Isaac firmly stepped in front of his sister, Boyd moving to join him and crossing his arms. Though five years his junior, Vernón Boyd was as tall as Derek and was not lacking in bulk.

“That’s not what I meant.” Derek quickly said, looking slightly stunned and impatient. “I meant come stay with me. Go to school, learn, etc. And I will teach you the street skills you’re all lacking. You guys may be good for your age but I can help make you much better. Teach you how to blend in with the highborn crowd, steal a bracelet as you kiss a woman’s hand, take the crown from a coronation ceremony, fight better than the Argent Knights themselves. And in return, once you all know as much as I can teach you, you can pay me back by putting those skills to good use and cutting me in on the profits. How does that sound?”

Ericá looked between her brother and best friend. When both gave subtle nods she turned back to Derek.

“We have a deal.”


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An escape attempt and some Stiles backstory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> un-beta'd   
> There's probably a million mistakes but they're all my own  
> I may come back and edit or change things in the future

October 2nd, 1746- The Forest, on the Way to Marseilles

After three days of riding with the group, Stiles found himself - against all odds - beginning to truly enjoy their company. Vârcolac was of course still surly and distant, through Stiles was beginning to notice different levels of the perpetual grumpy attitude. Level one was a general scowl which translated to neutral attitude, this was most common during meals or when they company was riding in silence. Level two was when the eyebrows started to come into play and his eyes seemed to darken; this was regularly aimed at anyone who said something stupid… meaning mostly Stiles.

Level three showed when his fingers started to slowly creep to the side holster of his odd claw like weapons and rested on the edge of the flap. Stiles had seen this one twice so far; the first time after Munte had finished explaining how they all met and Stiles had pestered them with questions that no one wanted to answer until Vârcolac had snapped at him and the second when he taught Shandor a travel song that kept repeating and they had continued to sing it for nearly an hour, though surprisingly it was Tamás who broke first that time. Levels four and five remained to be seen but Stiles had no doubt they were in there somewhere.

Shandor, despite the wounds of their initial meeting, had, interestingly enough, turned out to be very similar to Stiles in many ways. Over the past few days they had discussed everything from books, literature, and astronomy to the newest stars of the french opera houses and their compared levels of attractiveness. After bickering on this topic for a while, Vârcolac hit level two and Stiles wisely decided to change the topic again before it got worse. 

However, despite all of the apparent decency, Stiles could not forget that he was not there on his own free will, these were not his friends, and he had to get back to his father soon. This was a pretty sobering thought and it was only during a lull in the conversation that he allowed himself to think about his situation. If the others others noticed the change in behavior, they thankfully didn’t say anything about it and soon enough the conversation rose once more and the moments were forgotten. 

But it had been three days now, and they were getting closer and closer to Marseilles every minute. They probably had a little over a fortnight to go, progress was slower with Stiles there and horses doubled up due to injury. Stiles had made a plan the first day to not give away how adept he was at riding, and so instead made sure to complain at regular intervals about saddle sores, his back, the bathroom, a need to stretch his legs, really anything that might slow their progress even a little. So far it had been working, the group had only managed to get a dozen miles or so, rather than the 20-30 they were accustomed to covering in a day on horseback.

They stopped in a broad clearing to make camp for the night, hungry and looking to refill their skeins from the stream near the edge. Stiles cringed as he dismounted, actually sore from sitting passenger behind Vârcolac for so long. Not to mention Shandor had gotten a neat slice across his back that kept cracking and bleeding into his shirt again. Though it wasn’t deep and had scabbed over well already with the assistance of the paste Tamás had given him, it was still wide, stretching from the left dimple in the small of his back straight across then curving down over his right hip and stopping a few inches down the middle of his thigh. The mixture of the heat, stinging sweat, and constant rolling movement of the horse had prevented it from healing as quickly as necessary but Stiles had been over emphasizing the pain. 

“Hey! It okay if I go pee real quick? I’m gonna explode soon and you know we’ll just have to stop again later if I wait.” Stiles called out, turning to face Vârcolac.

“Fine. Tamás, watch him.” He answered, untacking to bridles from the horses.

“Really, man? I’m just going right over there,” Stiles said, pointing to a small copse of trees barely ten feet from the others, “and plus when I said I had to pee i meant the other kind of waste. Tamás probably does not want to hear all of that. Besides, I’d get home faster going with you and waiting for my family to pay the ransom then attempting to limp all the way there with my back as it is, looking like a mess, and with no money. Please? Just let me do my business in peace?” Through the whole speech, Vârcolac’s face had covered a humorous display of emotions, ranging from incredulous, to considering, to something normal people might say qualified as amused but since Stiles knew better by now, he would call just a yet unknown version of annoyed and grumpy.

“Fine, fine. Be quick, I don’t want to have to come check on you.” He finally settled on. Stiles smiled and nodded, slowly limping over to the well covered copse he had referenced. As soon as he was out of their sightline, gone was the limp and smile, replaced with a fierce look of determination and methodical and purposeful movements. sinking to his knees in the soft loam, Stiles quickly gathered a collection of sticks and rocks around him, then set to work pulling several long, fine strings out of the hem of his shirt. 

As young children, Stiles had been an adventurous child prone to pranks and elaborate escape plans which he dragged his best friend and more hesitant co-conspirator, Scott, into. Now, Scott was the Dauphin and therefore had several guards with him whenever he accompanied his mother to the small but royally favored dress shop in Versailles owned and run by Stiles’ mother, Claudia Stilinski. Quickly growing bored with the adult approved games the mothers allowed them, Stiles had invented multiple kinds of delayed distraction devices, DDD’s. With some string he nicked from his mothers basket, rocks from the street, and various sticks collected, Stiles was able to set up an interesting lever device where rocks would slowly fall and release the string, which in turn would knock over a bunch of things in the back of the shop, drawing attention, and allowing the mischievous duo to escape out the front door and into the interesting world of the aristocratic market place. 

It’s funny how years later, his contraption would come in handy once again. Pulling a young birch tree down to the ground by one of the smaller branches, Stiles carefully tied it down to a few roots, the flimsy silk thread trembling under the strain. Next, he created a ramp leading down to the threads, piling dirt to make the high point and laying the smooth sticks down on it. At the very top of the ramp went a large rock, held back by another stick in front of it. Stiles made sure to make the ramp much longer and less steep than the childhood versions, ensuring a longer delay. As soon as he took his hand off the stick, immediate the rock began to slowly slide down the ramp; only a few minutes before it reached the end with enough momentum to snap the string, release the tree, and send it careening into the others and causing a racket. 

Quickly Stiles hurried back to the camp, irritated at how the fake limp effected his progress. Grabbing the waterskin they had leant him, Stiles slowly walked over to the stream a good 30 feet away from the fire pit Munte was setting up, putting on a slight imp for show when he noticed Vârcolac tracing his progress from where he was wiping down the horses. Reaching the waters edge, he hunkered down awkwardly, reaching past rocks to the water with the loose bag. Holding his breath, he waited for his distraction to snap, checking again that the pouch of coins he had lifted off Vârcolac earlier that day while riding was still safely secured in the band of his pants. 

Come on, come on! What’s taking so long, Stiles thought to himself as the seconds ticked by. Pretty soon they’re gonna realize it doesn’t take this long to fill up water and I’m gonna have to make a move. Thankfully, just as he was rising to stand, a sharp snap of branches colliding and breaking rent the air, accompanied by the screech of birds taking off from the trees. Vârcolac swore loudly and started barking orders, all three drawing their weapons and facing the copse preparing for what must be an ambush.

Across the clearing, Stiles took off, sprinting into the forest back the way they had come and ignoring the pulling sensation in his back. He could here the commotion behind him as within 30 seconds or so, the others noticed his absence and realized there was no attack. Pushing his legs harder and panting in the thankfully warm air, Stiles finally saw the main road in the distance. Leaping through the last bushes blocking his way, Stiles turned left, following the freshest trail and continued running down the road.

Minutes passed, still no other travelers and time was quickly running out. Rounding a corner, Stiles was relieved to see a small donkey led cart covered with a tarp and being led by an older man. Sprinting up to him, out of breath and ecstatic, Stiles asked “Sir, please, may I hide in your cart until we get to the next town? I can pay you, please, I am a noble and there are people after me. Please, Monsieur, I will be no trouble.” Startled the man just nodded his head, stunned at the odd turn of events on his usual boring day. Quickly Stiles pressed the coin purse into his palm and dove under the tarp on the cart, finding himself laying between a pile of radishes and another of potatoes. 

Within another minute or so of trying desperately to regain his breath and slow his heartbeat, Stiles heard the sound of multiple horses approaching quickly from behind. “Monsieur, I have you seen a young man run by here?” Stiles’ stomach dropped as the cart rolled to a stop. “We are his guards, he is a thief and killer, a convict on his way to face judgment in the courts of Marseilles. I assure you, sir, he is an adept liar and likely was very convincing if he told you a story.” Stiles held his breath, praying for the man to doubt Vârcolac’s tale.

“Say, how do I know yer tellin’ the truth there, hmm? Fer all I ken, this boy you talk off is the innocent one, and yer the scoundrels after him, eh? Got proof, have ya?” The man said suspiciously, accusing in that angry peasant drawl that it seems only very old and grumpy men can quite manage. “Here, my papers of identification as a high ranking Naval Officer.” Stiles’ eyes widened at the words, mystified at how Vârcolac had managed to falsify such specific and complicated papers, probably seals, signatures, and all. 

“These are privates under my command, his crimes were committed at sea, making him convicted of piracy as well, and so he falls under our jurisdiction. We were sent to retrieve him from the small city he was hiding out in until he was recognized there by a member of the guard and we were notified. Is this proof enough?”

“Aye Sir, my apologies. Ya know, I just wanted to be sure, didn’ want no trouble, see. He’s in the cart, probably bruising my radishes.”

Before Stiles could move, the tarp was thrown back and his arms were seized by both Shandor and Munte, dragging him from the cart bed, their faces stony and lacking any drop of sympathy or companionship they may have had before. Quickly tying his arms together behind his back, they pulled him back to the front of the cart and pushed him down to his knees in the dirt at Vârcolac’s feet.

“That’s him. Your aid is much appreciated. You may keep whatever coins he likely gave you for your troubles. Good day.” The old man nodded in response, smiling at the news he could keep the money. Meeting Stiles’ pleading eyes, there was a slight moment of hesitation before he sneered, shook his head, and once again lead his donkey down the road.

Feeling his last piece of hope fading away as he watched the cart get further away before rounding a bend and he lost sight of it, Stiles sunk down, his weight relying primarily on the ropes still bend by Shandor, head falling forward and eyes closing to prevent the sting of disappointed tears from escaping and sacrificing him pride along with his freedom.

Not a word was said as the others mounted their horses again, this time leaving Stiles on the ground with the rope hooked on Vârcolac’s saddle. With no choice other than to be dragged backwards down the road by his arms, Stiles rose from his knees and stumbled a bit, wincing and the cramped pain that came from pushing himself then long inactivity. 

The entire journey back to the meadow they had made camp in, from the road to the hunting trails they had been taking, was done in total silence, a heavy feeling of rage falling over the whole group with the assurance that the first to speak would cause it to snap and they would be the first casualties. 

Stiles’ legs were shaking by the time he was finally allowed to sit at the edge of the cold fire pit from earlier. Once they all sat, passing around a few provisions for a late meal and purposefully skipping over Stiles, whose hands were still securely bound behind him.

Surprisingly, it was Vârcolac himself who broke the silence first, with one question. “Why. You were right, before, waiting until the ransom is paid is the fastest way to return. So why did you do it.”

“Had no choice. I’m supposed to be somewhere in less than a week, and without me there things are going to turn ugly. Please, you have to believe me, if it was just me I would wait for this all to be over, but I have a duty that must be completed.” Stiles said, making eye contact and praying to any deity who might have half an ear to the conversation.

“Explain,” was the only response.

Stiles sighed, drooping once again. “I can’t, I’m sorry. It’s important, that’s all I can say.”

Shandor interrupted at this point, eyes fiery with anger and hurt feelings, “We told you our past, I think it’s just about time you return the favor. You’re not just some spoiled nobles son, are you?”

Stiles ducked his head with a wry grin, “Not exactly, no. I’m a bastard, grew up with my mom till she died when I was nine, resulting in my dad officially recognizing me.”

“Then what,” Shandor continued to press, aware that there was more to the story.

“Then life changed. I went from a quirky kid playing with the Dauphin in the back of his mothers dress shop near Versailles to being the one dragged to the shops to be fitted. The noble life didn’t suit me, and my older half brother, Jordan, was the perfect son to take over the title. I chose not to continue the path of a well groomed bastard son, fit for a life of a decent marriage and endless small talk. And since Scott and I were old friends, I had another option…”


End file.
